Flickers

I don't remember exactly when it started, though I keep thinking it was the spring before last - or maybe two springs ago, or three. The calendar on my kitchen wall says April, but which April? I remember standing by the window and hearing the low hum of the street below, the way the city always smells after rain, the sharp metallic bite under the sweet wet air. I was supposed to be meeting him - no, someone. Or maybe I was avoiding him. I'm not sure.

The doorbell rang. Or did it? Perhaps I imagined it. I remember the echo of footsteps on the wooden floors, the shadow that flickered across the hall. I opened the door, though whether I opened it with my hand or my mind is uncertain. There was a man - or perhaps it was a woman - standing there, wearing something dark, a coat that might have been black or navy, I can't remember. They said my name. Or maybe they didn't. Their lips moved, forming words, but the sound is gone.

I offered them coffee, I think. Or water. Or perhaps nothing at all. We sat - or stood. I remember a chair, a faint squeak as it scraped across the tile, but I cannot remember which one of us sat. I felt something like fear - or anticipation—but I'm not sure which.

"I thought you'd be alone," they said. Or maybe it was I who said it. Words, I've discovered, are slippery, like wet stones in a creek. You think you hold them, but they slide away before you can remember their weight.

We spoke about work. Or was it a debt? A favor owed? I feel sure it was important. The way I remember it, every pause carried gravity. Yet when I close my eyes, I see only the soft curve of their shoulders, the tilt of their head, and I can't tell if I'm remembering them or imagining.

I poured the coffee - or maybe it was tea - and it spilled slightly, a thin dark line across the saucer. Did it stain the tablecloth, or was there never a tablecloth? The thought makes me uneasy, as if the details themselves are conspirators, hiding truth in plain sight.

Later, or earlier, or perhaps the same moment, I walked through the park. Or was it the plaza outside my apartment? There was a fountain - or a statue - that I can see clearly in my mind: a figure frozen mid-motion, water trickling over stone. I remember thinking how strange it was that it seemed alive, though I had seen it countless times before, and each time it had been static. Yet now, in memory, I recall it moving, almost imperceptibly, like it was breathing.

I think someone approached me. Or did I approach them? A friend, perhaps. I don't have many friends - or maybe I have too many. Their face is blurred, the kind of face that could belong to anyone or everyone. They spoke my name - or my fear's name. We walked - or sat - by the fountain. We argued about something trivial, I think. Or was it important? Perhaps it was both.

"I can't trust you," they said. Or maybe I said it. Words are so unreliable. What I remember clearly is the tone, the sharp edge beneath softness, the undercurrent of panic, and the way the light glinted off the wet stone.

I keep a notebook, though I cannot recall if I started it before or after the spring, or if I ever did. Inside are scribbled names, places, events. Some of them I recognize. Others seem invented - or perhaps invented after I forgot them. I read through it sometimes and feel a tug of understanding, a certainty that I am piecing something together. But then I turn the page, and the certainty evaporates.

I write of him - the man who may have been my friend, lover, or predator. He - or perhaps another - entered my apartment one night. Or it might have been a hotel room, or a café. I remember the smell of cigarettes, or maybe incense. I remember the feel of silk or linen brushing my fingers. He - or she - was silent for long stretches, and I thought I understood why, but later I realized that silence might have been mine, and not theirs.

I remember a photograph, or a fragment of one. It's of a hand reaching, a shadow bending over a body, or perhaps a chair. It could have been on a wall, or on the floor, or in my mind. I stare at it sometimes and feel sure of what it depicts, though deep down I know I might be wrong.

Sometimes, I think the apartment itself conspires against me. The walls shift. The rooms change dimensions depending on the day - or on how I feel. The hallway stretches impossibly, or contracts. A door that was there yesterday is gone today. Did I imagine it, or was it removed? I check again and again, but the answer is never satisfying.

I dream - or did I dream? - of a woman with red hair, or perhaps auburn, leaning against a counter. She smiles, faint and crooked, and I remember the way her eyes darted, nervous, calculating. I remember the scent of her perfume—or maybe her hair. We spoke of something that might have been danger or desire. I cannot separate the two.

I think she gave me a key. Or perhaps it was a note, folded small, inscribed with words I cannot remember. I hid it somewhere safe - or perhaps lost it immediately. The memory insists on its significance, yet I cannot place its meaning.

I remember a day when I thought I saw him - or someone - leaving the building. It could have been morning or evening. The sky was washed in pink, or grey, or both. He - or they - did not notice me. I wanted to call out. I wanted to warn. I wanted to chase. Yet I froze. When I returned to the building minutes later - or hours later - the hallways were empty, the offices dark, and the hum of the city outside had muted to a low vibration I could feel in my chest.

I ask myself sometimes: did I imagine him? Did I see a shadow? Or did I betray someone by hesitation? I cannot recall, though the memory feels vivid enough to stain the skin.

In the evenings, I wander the city streets. The neon lights flicker inconsistently; some bulbs are bright, others dim. I swear I can read messages in the pattern, signs of fate, warning, or accusation. I stop at cafés I may have visited, speak to strangers who may have known me. Names slip through the cracks of memory. Faces look familiar, yet unfamiliar, like a dream half-forgotten.

A man - or was it the same man? - sits across from me at a table. He smiles. He leans close. I feel recognition, but it's not clear if it's recognition of him or of myself, the self I was, or the self I imagine I might have been.

"Do you remember?" he asks. Or perhaps I ask him. The question trembles between us, suspended in air heavy with smoke, or steam, or the scent of flowers. I nod - or perhaps shake my head. Words feel inadequate. Memory feels inadequate.

There is a day - or a sequence of days - when something breaks. A window? A relationship? A law? I remember sirens. I remember glass. I remember confusion, shouts, the sensation of running, or maybe falling. I cannot recall whether I left or stayed. I cannot recall who helped, who harmed, or if anyone was there at all. I only know the echo remains, hammering against my skull, a warning or a promise I cannot decipher.

I write it down in my notebook: "Fell? Ran? Hid? Witnessed? Betrayed?" The words circle each other, refusing to settle. Each reading twists them slightly, until they resemble memory less than obsession.

Sometimes I catch glimpses of clarity. A touch of a hand, a name spoken softly, the curve of a hallway as it bends impossibly in perspective. These moments are cruel because they suggest coherence exists somewhere, though I cannot hold it. I long for certainty, for proof, for a single moment I can pin and claim as truth. Yet even those moments dissolve when I blink - or when I close my eyes.

And so, I wander, keeping my notebook close, recording fragments, questioning everything, piecing together something that may not have happened. I live among shadows that might be people, among streets that might be rooms, among lives that might be mine - or not.

I am haunted. Perhaps by him. Perhaps by me. Perhaps by memory itself.

I do not know.